These Days
by BitterKitten
Summary: It didn't get easier, the more he said it. It just became more real. A multichaptered fic about a lifechanging act of violence, and it's aftermath. BB, AH. No character death. Please see inside for longer summary and warning. CHPT 6 NOW UP!
1. Chapter 1

**Title:**** These Days**

**Rating:**** T, for subject matter and a few colourful language choices**

**Disclaimer:****I don't own Bones; I merely toy with them for my own amusement. If I did own them, do you think I'd put them through this?**

**Also, the title of this fic comes from the Powderfinger song of the same name, though this is not a song fic. If you haven't heard of Powderfinger, look them up. You won't be sorry.**

**Pairings:****Bones and Booth, eventually. Also a little Angela/Hodgins**

**Warning:****This story deals with sexual assault. If you are particularly sensitive to this, I would suggest not reading this fic. While I will not be going into graphic or gratuitous detail, most of the procedural information is accurate, and people who have experienced it may find it distressing.**

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_She came back to herself only slowly, floating up through a haze of grey and black. Sensations returned, fragmented, broken images and half sentences firing at random into her mind. Cold. She was cold. And there was pounding, in her head, through the floor… music? A voice… muffled, but there, as familiar to her as her own. She tried to open her eyes, tried to move limbs that felt strangely disembodied, hers and not hers, tingling and heavy. A burning fire raced its way through her arms, across her belly, through her chest, almost pushing her back down into the blackness. She tried to open her mouth, to speak, to cry out, and found nothing but a croak. Fear. That was there. Pain. That too. She lay still, fighting the nothingness. The voice. There was something important about it. It meant something. Her mind reached into the darkness, closing on the name, and then retreating. She was tired. Fight. The word came to her through the haze, inside her head, thumping with her heart. It came to her unbidden as she lay, alone and not alone, in the cold, living dark._

_And then something else. A murmur, low and soothing, like melted honey, far away and so close, beside her and around her. Inside her. Warmth, heavy and thick, as something covered her, bringing with it a scent…of what? She reached for the answer, grasping. She knew it, but couldn't place it. But she did know what it meant. Safety. She clung to that thought as the haze deepened and she slipped back under._

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"What have we got?"

"Female, late twenties to early thirties, head trauma, probable fractures of the anterior ribcage, possible shoulder dislocation, open wound on the abdomen, multiple lacerations and contusions. Unconscious at scene. Blood pressure is one ten over sixty, two mils morphine given on route. One bag saline hung, blood type is o-neg."

"Pupils are equal and responsive."

"Can you squeeze my hand, sweetheart?"

"Shaw, call CT and let them know we'll be coming down shortly."

"How long was she out for?"

"What happened to her?"

"Name, does anyone have her name?"

Seeley Booth grasped the last sentence amid the whirling chaos and flashing lights.

"Brennan. Dr Temperance Brennan," he said quickly, not knowing who to address or who had even asked the question. He took a step closer to the gurney, and was abruptly shoved out of the way by an orderly bearing another bag of saline. A woman – a doctor, judging by the lab coat, glanced up at him briefly, taking in the blood that covered his shirt.

"And you are?"

"Booth. She's my… I'm the… I'm FBI. Is she…?" He was stuttering like a fool, and took a deep breath. His hands were shaking.

"We'll do everything we can. Anything else we need to know, Agent Booth?"  
He swallowed hard. There was a lot of blood.

"Yeah. You'll need to follow SAP." He could feel his throat close, his body fighting the words as he spoke them.

All at once, the doctor's expression changed, and her mouth opened slightly in understanding. With a weary sigh, she turned from him to address the swirling mass of activity around the gurney.

"Okay, people, sexual assault protocol needs to be implemented. Can we get some bags for her hands, please, and let OBGYN know that we'll be sending her down for a rape kit when we've got her stabilised."

He looked away as they gently lifted her hands and fixed clear plastic bags around them.

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They were pushing through a set of double doors.

"Sir, you're going to need to wait here."

_Not a fucking chance_.

"I… no… I'm going with her." He tried to side step the nurse, a heavyset older woman, but she was surprisingly fast. Planting herself in his path, she looked up at him with kind eyes.

"Sir, you need to let the doctors work on her. Let them do their jobs," she said firmly.

Booth pressed his lips together, feeling a wave of something akin to panic bubble in his stomach. With an effort, he controlled himself and reached into his pocket. He held up his badge.

"And I need to do my job. Please. You've got to let me in. She's my…. That's my partner, and I need to make sure she's okay. Please." He didn't recognise his voice, the pleading note to it. He was not a man accustomed to begging.

"I'm sorry, sir. But there's nothing you can do for her right now. I'm going to have to ask you to stay in the waiting area until they are finished with her." She patted his arm, apparently in a gesture of comfort. He pulled it away. Fighting down the urge to physically throw the woman out of his way, he turned from her, trying to control the sudden burst of white-hot rage.

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His pocket was vibrating. Phone. On autopilot, he flipped it open. His hand was sticky, and he noticed with some detachment that it was bleeding. He wiped it on his shirt absent-mindedly, and switched the phone to the other hand.

"Booth."

"Booth, it's Cullen. I just heard. How bad is it?" His boss's gravely voice was lower than usual.

"I don't know, sir. They wouldn't let me go in." He tried to keep his voice even, but he suspected he wasn't doing that great a job. He sounded shaky, even to his own ears. "She's alive. But…I think… they, uh, think it could be pretty bad."

"Jesus." There was a sharp intake of air on the other end. "Can you call me, when you know something more?"

He closed his eyes briefly.

"Yes, sir."

"Booth, I'm going to send Streiger and Black down, I don't want you on this one."

"Sir…"

"Don't argue with me, Booth. I want to catch this, and I don't want to give the defence any possible reason to throw out a case. You're too close to this." His voice was firm.

"Sir, I wasn't going to argue. I know I can't work this case." In fact, he knew that even if they'd wanted him to, he couldn't do it. And not only because he would not even try to stop himself shooting the evil son of a bitch responsible when he was caught. "I was just going to say, could you send Pullman instead of Streiger?"

"Why not Streiger?" The confusion and tiredness were evident in the older man's voice.

"Because Bones has met Streiger before… and because … we may need Pullman's expertise, for this."

"But Pullman works Special Victims… Oh."

Clenching his jaw, Booth waited. A cough and some rustling papers sounded through the phone, tinny and distant.

"Oh, shit, Booth." His voice was heavy with regret. "Okay. I'll send Pullman. Call me, soon as you get more info."

Booth leaned up against the wall, hard and cold against his back. The fluorescent light above him hummed quietly. He knew Cullen was waiting for him to say something.

"Mmm-hmmm." He gritted. "Will do, sir."

"And Booth?"

"Yes sir?"

"Are you okay?"

Absurdly, for a moment he felt like laughing at the clichéd predictability of the question. Okay? No. He really wasn't. He wasn't even in the same hemisphere as okay.

"I'm fine, sir."

He hung up without waiting for a response.

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A clipboard had been pressed into his hands, and he stared down at it dumbly.

"Sir, we need you to fill this out."

The nurse was gone before he could ask a question. Sinking down into an uncomfortable plastic seat, he tried to read the form through tired, blurry eyes.

Medical Insurance. Social Security. Full name and date of birth of the patient. He wondered briefly what they would do if he hurled the board straight into the plexi-glass window of the nurses station, then took a deep breath, trying to find a shred of calm. Fumbling for the pen, he began to write.

_Dr. Temperance Brennan. Born 28th April, 1976. 2B/461 Hanover Terrace, Wilson's Grove, Washington DC 20068. Emergency Contact: Seeley Booth, 0445 5446 0040_

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Someone was calling his name.

"Booth! Booth! Oh, thank God."

Turning, he saw Angela rushing towards him, white-faced and wild haired. Her cardigan wasn't buttoned properly, and her eyes were puffy. He felt a surge of protectiveness, wishing he hadn't had to call her in the middle of the night for something like this.

"Is she okay? Please tell me she's okay. Where is she?" She asked, pulling him into a hug, noting the tense set of his shoulders.

He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair, wondering what to say. Wondering if he could get the words out, again. Did he tell her? Was it his place? He had no idea.

"She's with the doctor's now. They, uh… they wouldn't let me go in, but she… I don't know, Ang."

Her eyes filled at his words, and he looked away. He didn't have enough in him to handle her tears, not right now.

"Oh…" she whispered. She sounded very young at that moment, nothing like the vivacious, bubbly artist he knew so well. Then she looked carefully at him.

"What… what aren't you telling me, Booth?"

He could hear the rising panic in her voice, and wished there was something he could say to comfort her. He had nothing. Hating himself, the situation, everything, he opened his mouth again. He knew he had to tell her, knew she would kick his ass six ways from Sunday if he didn't.

"I… we don't know for sure yet, but… Ang… it looks like she was probably…" He dug his nails hard into his palm.

"Probably… probably what, Booth?"

"Ang… they're pretty certain… she's been raped."

The word waited between them, ugly and stark, like a profanity in a church, and then the implication of what he'd said hit her. She looked like she'd been punched in the stomach, and a tear traced its way down her face. And he found he hated her, just for a moment, just in that second, for making him say it.

"Oh my God. Are you sure?" she asked, in a small voice.

He was shouting before he even realised what he was doing.

"Jesus Christ, Angela! No. Okay? No, I'm not sure, and I hope to God that I'm wrong. But I don't know anything more that what I'm telling you, because they won't tell me anything! Nobody's telling me anything! What do you want me to say?" His fists had clenched, and he was breathing hard.

She took a step back, eyes hurt, and a wave of prickly shame washed over him. He could feel the eyes on his back, the occupants of the waiting room watching avidly, but didn't turn, just pressed a hand to his forehead and rubbed his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Ang. I'm sorry. It's been a long night."

Nodding slowly, she reached for his hand and squeezed it.

"It's okay, Booth. I get it." She looked him over, her concern evident in her eyes. "Has a doctor looked at you, yet? You're bleeding."

He glanced down at himself. Sure enough, his white tee shirt was smeared with blood. He wasn't about to tell Angela that most of it wasn't his.

"I'm fine. Have you got… Is Hodgins here?"

She nodded, obviously trying to get herself under control. Wiping her eyes and squaring her shoulders, she responded.

"Yeah. He's just parking the car. He'll be here soon."

"Okay. I'm going to be just outside the door. I need to wait for these… the agents that Cullen sent. It's probably going to be a while before they send the doctor out to talk to us, but… if they do, come get me. And…" he paused, debating what he was about to say. He knew it wasn't fair to her.

"Ang, don't tell Jack." He massaged his neck briefly. "Okay?"

Her face fell, but he could see that she understood why he'd said it.

"Got it."

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The night air was cold, raising goose bumps on his bare arms. A waft of cigarette smoke drifted over to him. He wasn't a smoker, not any more, not since Parker was born, but the craving hit him suddenly, stronger than it had been for many years. He glanced to his left. Sure enough, a young guy, no older than twenty-five, was leaning against the cinderblock wall, exhaling the last puff of his cigarette.

"Excuse me?"

The young man looked up, eyes widening in alarm. Belatedly, Booth remembered his appearance, and lifted his hands, as though to prove he wasn't about to knife the kid.

"Yeah?" The stranger's voice was, understandably, cautious.

"Do you think I could steal one of those?" Booth asked, gesturing towards the Marlboro packet, clutched tightly in the kid's hand.

A moment's hesitation, then he held them out.

"Sure, man. You look like you need it."

Booth smiled tightly, more of a grimace than anything else, and extracted a cigarette. It took him three tries to get it lit. Exhaling the acrid smoke, he handed back the cheap plastic lighter.

"Thanks."

"No worries."

Watching as the kid ground out the butt, and walked back towards the glowing entrance doors, he took another drag, waiting for the nicotine to work. To calm him, like it had, so many times before.

There was an air of unreality about the whole situation, a kind of all-pervading greyness to the sky that made him think that this couldn't actually be happening, not really. Any moment now, any second, he would wake up, sheets tangled around his feet, his bedroom black around him, and he would thank God that it was all just a dream. Except the moment didn't come, no matter how hard he willed it to.

The head spin came first, and he stood very still, waiting for the dizziness to pass. It didn't work. The nausea came quickly, roiling up from his gut, and he turned quickly towards the trashcan.

Straightening a few minutes later, feeling empty, hollow, he wiped his mouth. A clammy sweat had broken out on his forehead, and the air was cool. He was still holding the cigarette in his hand. With a sigh, he dropped it to the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of his boots. Just as disgusting as he'd remembered. For a moment, he stood, motionless, wondering what the hell to do next. The words were on his lips before he even realised what he was doing.

"_Hail Mary, full of grace…"_


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:**** These Days**

**Rating:**** T, for subject matter and a few colourful language choices**

**Disclaimer:****I don't own Bones; I merely toy with them for my own amusement. If I did own them, do you think I'd put them through this?**

**Also, the title of this fic comes from the Powderfinger song of the same name, though this is not a song fic. If you haven't heard of Powderfinger, look them up. You won't be sorry.**

**Pairings:****Bones and Booth, eventually. Also a little Angela/Hodgins**

**Warning:****This story deals with sexual assault. If you are particularly sensitive to this, I would suggest not reading this fic. While I will not be going into graphic or gratuitous detail, most of the procedural information is accurate, and people who have experienced it may find it distressing.**

**A/N:**** I just want to say a massive thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far. I write solely for my own amusement, but it's always nice to know that other people are enjoying it! **

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"Booth!"

He turned, recognising the voice. Special Agent Sarah Pullman was hurrying towards him from the parking lot, clipping her badge to her belt. Dressed casually, in jeans, boots, and a puffy down jacket, her bright red hair had been thrown haphazardly into a ponytail. She looked like she'd just woken up. He glanced down at his watch, realising that this was probably true. 4.15 am. He'd been here for over three hours. He realised with a shock it had been less than five hours since he'd gotten the phone call.

"Hey, Pullman," he said, shaking her hand.

"You look like shit, Booth," she said bluntly, the harshness of her words tempered by the light squeeze she gave him as she removed her hand. "Black is on his way here – do you want me to get him to stop at your place, pick you up some more clothes – a jacket, maybe? You must be freezing."

He glanced down at himself. He hadn't been cold, until she'd said that.

"Uh, yeah. That's probably a good idea. I think there's some in my office, though, it's closer. Bottom drawer of the filing cabinet."

She was on the phone almost before he'd finished speaking, already walking towards the double doors, glowing in the darkness. After a brief murmur of conversation, she snapped the phone shut.

"Done, he'll be here in half an hour." She paused, just outside the doors and decisively led the way towards the bench seat to the left. "Okay. What's the situation? Cullen told me what he knows, which isn't much. He said the victim is the anthropologist you work with?" She was brusque, efficient. He'd admired that about her, in the past, having seen her interview victims and witnesses. It was strange, being on the other side. It was strange, hearing her refer to Bones as a victim.

He sank down into the seat next to her, and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

"Temperance - Dr Brennan." _Bones._ "Yeah. She's my…" He grasped for the best word to describe what it was they were to each other, and in the absence of the best, settled for the easiest.

"She's my partner."

Running a hand through his hair, he paused, not knowing where to start.

Pullman regarded him briefly and leaned back against the wall.

"Booth. I know that this is… well, I believe the technical term is 'a fucking nightmare'," she said matter-of-factly.

He laughed without humour, a lump in his throat.

"A fucking nightmare," he repeated slowly, staring out into the darkness of the car park. Briefly, he thought about correcting her. Nightmares, you woke up from. The sense of unreality that he had felt earlier was quickly starting to fade, leaving behind an uncomfortable awareness that this situation, that this reality – it wasn't going away anytime soon. Maybe never. He kept his mouth shut, not having the words or the desire to try and explain this to the agent.

She continued speaking, and he recognised in her words so many of his own, the platitudes that he himself had offered victims and their families in similar situations. Inwardly, he wondered if they had sat there, much like he was now, willing him to shut the fuck up. Pullman continued.

"And I know that right now, you couldn't really care less about answering my questions. But I need you to tell me what happened, while you still remember all the details, so I can start doing what I need to do." She pulled a notebook from her pocket and waited.

If he put aside his anger and frustration for a moment, and considered her words… intellectually, he knew she was right. Hell, he could recite all the facts and statistics about clarity of memory and how quickly it diminished in the hours after a traumatic event. But he also knew, without any doubt whatsoever, that this was not going to be something that he forgot. As much as he might want to. This was going to be something that would wake him, gasping and sweating in the middle of the night, the images crisp and sharp, like a knife.

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_It was the tinny ring that woke him. Startled awake, he pried his eyes open and glanced at his alarm clock, the glowing green numbers casting a strange, other-worldly light over his bedroom. 11.47pm. Had he really only been asleep for an hour? He leaned over and grabbed the phone, now vibrating against his nightstand. His arms felt like lead weights, feeling the effects of a day and a half of little sleep and too much alcohol._

"_Booth," he muttered, voice croaky with sleep._

"_Seeley Booth?" _

_He didn't recognise the voice, but there was a tone to it that was concerning. Slightly more awake, now, he sat up in bed and clicked on his lamp._

"_Yeah. Who's asking?" He asked, blinking in the bright light. _

"_This is Bob Harper. I'm sorry to call you so late, but you were listed as the emergency contact so…"_

_Parker? Or…_

"_What is this regarding?" His voice was sharp, and he suddenly felt very sober._

"_It's probably nothing, sir, but, given…"_

"_What?"_

"_Well, sir, I'm the superintendent at 461 Hanover Terrace…"_

_Bones. _

_It took him exactly 27 minutes to dress, get in his car and drive to her apartment, the words of the building manager still sounding in his ears._

"_Loud music… two days… no answer on the phone…tried knocking…even unlocked the door… safety latch was on…"_

_A quick succession of phone calls had done little to ease the feeling that was growing in the pit of his stomach. The airline, who confirmed, after he advised them of his FBI status, that she'd never gotten on her flight to Florida. The hotel, who confirmed that she'd never checked in. The taxi company, who confirmed that she hadn't answered her door when they'd arrived for the airport pick-up two days ago._

"_Yeah, two days ago, airport fare, right? Yeah, I remember it 'cause the driver, Jerry, he said that there was real crappy music playin', seven a fricking clock in the morning, loud as anything. You know, that 'doof-doof-doof' music. No accounting for taste, huh?"_

_Booth had hung up without saying good-bye, not trusting himself to speak politely to the man. _

_And then he tried calling her himself, remembering the message he had left for her, shortly before she was due to leave. She hadn't called him back, and he'd been angry, frustrated that she would be so childish as to leave on a three-week trip without talking to him about what had happened in her office that night. And though he didn't want to admit it to himself, even now, he had been hurt. And embarrassed. So he hadn't called her again. Had stubbornly waited for her to cave, for her to be the one to reach out. Stupid. One hand on the wheel, he hit the speed dial now, and waited, hope vying with fear._

"_You've reached Dr Temperance Brennan. I'm not available, so please leave a message and I will return your call as soon as possible." Her familiar, smoky voice was cool, impersonal, and he snapped the phone shut abruptly, throwing it onto the passenger seat. _

_Be okay. Be okay. Be okay. Be okay._

_The words echoed through his head, unchecked, a silent litany. A prayer. _

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_And now, he walked down the familiar hallway that led to her door, the heavy bass line of the techno reverberating through the floor, echoing the quickening thump of his heart. _

_The small, balding superintendent stood behind him, slightly to the left, still clad in a dressing gown._

"_The music's been playing this loud for two days?" Booth asked. _

"_Yeah. Never had any problems with the Doc, before, so I was pretty surprised when Mr Morris down in 3B said it sounded like she was having a party in there," the older man replied, absently scratching his belly._

_They had reached the door and Booth turned slightly towards the superintendent._

"_A party that went for two days? You didn't think that was a little strange?" He didn't bother to disguise the anger and disbelief in his voice. _

_Harper took a step back at the tone, and his face fell._

"_Well, it wasn't me that thought it was a party, you know. And I thought…the doc likes her music, you know? And she looked a bit upset, last I saw her, so I figured she was just… you know…venting."_

_He was defensive._

_Booth didn't even bother to respond to this, instead raising his fist to knock on the door. No answer. Restraining the urge to kick it in, he raised his voice over the music._

"_Bones? It's me. If you're there, can you open the door?"_

_Nothing. He felt like his body was humming, every gut instinct he had telling him that something was very wrong here. Fear coated the air, thick and heavy._

"_Bones? I'm opening the door." It took the superintendent two tries to get the key into the lock, and Booth felt like shaking him. The safety chain was on, and with a quick, sharp kick, he broke it. If he was wrong, she could kick his ass for it later. _

_Something crunched beneath his feet as he stepped into the apartment. Broken vase, obviously from the table near the door. He took a sharp breath in and drew his gun with the hand that didn't hold the keys, gesturing for the man behind him to stay back. An upended purse. A cell phone with its electronic insides spilling out. Blood on the floor. A discarded shoe. _

_He went very still, then, his fear moving inward, crystallising into something altogether more dangerous and more purposeful. Moving with quiet deliberation, gun pointed before him, hands steady as a surgeon's, he moved through the rooms of the apartment. The music still pounded through the walls, but he didn't hear it as he walked, hyper-aware and yet strangely distant, existing solely within himself as he went through the oft-practised motions of securing a crime-scene. _

_And then he opened the last door, and any illusion of distance shattered. _

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"She was… tied up. In her room."

He shook his head, trying to get rid of the image, her hands knotted above her, the rope vivid blue against the white of her skin.

Pullman watched him for a moment, noting the white knuckles of his fists. Deciding, for the moment, to leave it alone, she changed tack.

"Okay. You untied her? And then called the paramedics?"

He nodded his assent, and she continued.

"Was there anyone else there?"

"No, but… I didn't really - I mean… I wasn't exactly… when I saw her, I just – I wasn't really looking around, searching for the perp, you know? But her balcony doors were open. He could've gotten out."

He paused, then shook his head slowly.

"I should've checked."

"Well, the Crime Scene Techs are there now, so I'll leave the rest until we can speak to Dr. Brennan." She flipped back through the notes she had made.

"Just one thing, Booth – you said that she hadn't been answering your calls for a couple of days? Is that unusual for her, to do that?"  
He shook his head, then looked away, but not before she caught the flicker that crossed his face.

"No. But we'd had an …argument. I thought… I thought she was just ignoring me. Having a tantrum, you know?" His jaw tightened slightly as she watched. "She was heading off on vacation, I figured I'd talk to her when she got back."

"Can I ask, Booth, what you argued about?"

He hesitated for a moment.

"Just… personal stuff. It wasn't work-related."

She nodded in understanding, writing in her notebook.

"So, you and Dr Brennan, you're dating?"

Booth shook his head.

"No… no, we aren't together. It's… we – Angela?" He stood up quickly, and Pullman turned, seeing the woman who was standing behind her.

"Sorry to interrupt, Booth, but the doctor wants to talk to us."

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A/N: I promise you'll find out how Brennan is in the next chapter…sorry! Anyway, let me know what you thought – loved it, hated it, I want to know. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Rating:**** T, for subject matter and a few colourful language choices**

**Disclaimer:****I don't own Bones; I merely toy with them for my own amusement. If I did own them, do you think I'd put them through this?**

**Also, the title of this fic comes from the Powderfinger song of the same name, though this is not a song fic. If you haven't heard of Powderfinger, look them up. You won't be sorry.**

**Pairings:****Bones and Booth, eventually. Also a little Angela/Hodgins**

**Warning:****This story deals with sexual assault. If you are particularly sensitive to this, I would suggest not reading this fic. While I will not be going into graphic or gratuitous detail, most of the procedural information is accurate, and people who have experienced it may find it distressing.**

**A/N:**** You guys rock! Thanks so much for all the reviews, it's lovely to know that people are getting into the story. If I haven't responded to your review yet, I will soon, I promise. **

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"The first thing you need to know is that Dr Brennan is going to be fine."

Booth let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, feeling a wave of relief wash through him, so strong he felt light headed. _Thank God._ Crossing himself unobtrusively, he shut his eyes for a moment, feeling Angela squeeze his hand tightly. He took a deep breath and tried to tune back into what the doctor was saying.

"She's got a pretty severe concussion, but CT came up clear, no bleeding or swelling in the brain. We managed to avoid doing a blood transfusion, though she'd lost a fairly sizeable amount, and she damaged some tendons and muscles in her shoulders and underarms. Thankfully, she didn't dislocate or fracture the joints, which we initially suspected. Three of her ribs are cracked, and the laceration on her stomach required a number of stitches. She also has some assorted cuts and bruises, all of which should heal fairly quickly."

The doctor paused then, and Booth watched him for a moment, waiting for what was coming. Hope was a bitch, he reflected silently. Even in the face of inevitability, especially in the face of inevitability… it was always there, lifting you up and then kicking you in the balls as you fell.

"She has… she was sexually assaulted, as was suspected."

For a second, no one spoke, and the ticking of the clock above the double doors sounded unreasonably loud.

"Is she awake? Can we see her?" Angela said slowly, releasing her death-grip on Booth's hand. He flexed it absently, feeling the blood start to pump again.

The doctor hesitated a moment, and glanced briefly at Pullman.

"She is awake, but I'm afraid you can't see her, just yet. She's undergoing a couple of further examinations for evidence purposes, but should be done shortly."

Angela opened her mouth to question him, but Booth stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"Evidence collection, Angela. They need to do the rape kit as soon as they can, otherwise the evidence isn't valid in court," he said quietly, wishing for a moment that he didn't know as much as he did about the process. Angela was silent for a moment, processing this.

"Does she know we're here? Does she… she needs someone to be with her. Is that… Can she… is that even allowed?" Speaking quickly, she turned from Booth to Pullman to the doctor.

Booth rubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble beneath his fingers. He had a feeling that even if Bones did know they were here, she wouldn't be eager for company while she was being examined. His suspicion was borne out with the doctor's next words.

"We asked her if she wanted a support person. She said no. You'll be able to see her soon. We need to send in the on-call psychiatrist once she's finished with Dr Rainer, but as soon as…"

Angela glanced at Booth, and then looked back to the doctor.

"Uh, can I suggest not sending in the psychiatrist?"

The doctor gave her a strange look, furrowing his brow. With a quick, confused glance in Booth and Pullman's direction, the doctor spoke.

"Why not?"

"Bren hates psychiatrists. She won't talk to one. Seriously. Just … don't." Angela looked towards Booth for support.

"Angela…"

"Booth, she wouldn't speak to them on a good day, let alone now. You know it's just going to piss her off."

Pullman answered from behind him.

"We do find that most people in these cases find that a mental health professional is quite a comfort." She said it kindly, but there was a barely discernable note of condescension in her voice. Booth felt a flicker of anger curl within him, and he opened his mouth to speak. Angela beat him to it. She turned to the agent, a look of disgust on her face.

"With all due respect, you have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Bren is not 'most people,' and I'm telling you right now, if you send the psych doctor in, it will do more harm than good."

Pullman swallowed, a little flustered, but recovered her composure quickly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause any offence." She glanced at Booth, clearly leaving the choice up to him. With a sigh, he turned to the doctor.

"Ask her. She'll say no. And when she does, don't push it."

He hoped it was the right decision.

The doctor nodded slowly.

"That… seems reasonable. In that case, I'll send someone out as soon as Dr Brennan feels ready to see visitors." He turned, and was almost at the doors before Booth reached him.

"Doc… doc!"

"Yes?"

"Is she…" Booth took a deep breath. His mouth was dry. "Is she okay, doc? I mean… God, you know what I mean."

The doctor looked at him for a moment, then reached out and placed a hand on Booth's shoulder, the intimate gesture oddly comforting.

"Mr… Booth, was it? She is okay, physically. And the rest of it? I'm not an expert, but that will be okay too. It'll just take some time."

He squeezed Booth's shoulder lightly, and turned away; disappearing through the double doors, back down the hall, sterile and white. Booth watched him go, the world blurring slightly around the edges. Pressing his lips together, he breathed shallowly for a moment, willing himself to keep it together.

It didn't help. Pushing past Angela and Pullman, past a young couple that were walking through the main entrance, he burst into the cool air, seeing the first grey light of dawn over the flickering lights of the city. Moments later, Angela was behind him.

"Booth…" He could hear the concern in her voice, but didn't turn around. His arms were braced against the rough block wall, and she could see the tension in his shoulders, coiled like a spring.

"I just… I just need to be alone for a minute."

"Come on, Booth, it's okay, she's okay…"

He turned around to face her. She could see the faintest shine of unshed tears in his eyes, though his face was outwardly calm.

"No." His voice was quiet.

"Booth…"

The facade cracked a little, and his face tightened. Shaking his head, he looked away.

"No, Angela. She's not okay. This… this whole fucking situation? It's really not okay. And right now..."

He took a breath, and after a moment, spoke again.

"Right now, I'm about to lose it, and I really... I don't want her to see it. I'm going to lose it out here, so it doesn't happen when I go in to see her. So please… just leave me alone. Okay?" A single tear spilled its way down his cheek, and he swiped at it angrily, turning away from her. She could see his hands shaking, and she nodded slowly.

"See you inside."

* * *

The paper of the gown rustled into the silence as she tried to pull it closer to herself. Brennan was still cold. Still tired. Leaning into the raised back of the hospital bed, she closed her eyes for a moment. Breathing hurt. So did the thump of the blood in her veins. She felt groggy, stupid with painkillers and sedatives and lack of sleep, like her head had been stuffed with cotton wool. The doctor had left a few minutes ago, and the nurse, taking with them, thankfully, their pitying smiles and their gentle words. She had been rude to them, she knew she had. She found she didn't care that much. Their words floated back to her. 

"_Okay, honey, we're going to take the swabs now, 'kay? This might hurt a little."_

"_All-righty, now this is going to sting, okay? A couple of stitches… you just squeeze down on my hand, if you need to."_

"Okay, sweetheart, Dr Rainer is doing the combings now. Let's get your mind off it… what's your favourite restaurant here in DC?"

_She had managed to tune them out, until the last sentence. Turning in disbelief to the nurse, a woman who couldn't have been any older than Brennan herself, the rage and humiliation had boiled over, and she snapped._

"_Do you really think that I want to talk about food right now? I've got my legs in stirrups, my head hurts, I …just… Stop talking. Now."_

_The woman just smiled at her benignly, patted her arm, as if she was a crazy woman, someone to be humoured. _

"_Sure thing, honey. Not a problem."_

"_My name is not 'honey'. My name is Dr Temperance Brennan. Get your hand off my arm." Her eyes were shut, and she spoke quietly, but there was venom in her words._

The nurse had removed her hand, and the rest of the examination had passed in silence. They had taken her to her own room. And now she was alone.

She wanted to take a shower. She wanted to wash her hair, to scrub her skin until it was pink and raw. She didn't want to be here. Automatically, her mind turned to her own bathroom, her shampoo, her toothbrush, her clothes. Her apartment. Her bedroom.

She didn't want to be there, either.

The images came, unbidden. Unavoidable. She opened her eyes, feeling sick, looking around herself at the beige blandness of the room. Her body was tense, humming from the rush of adrenalin that the sedatives fought hard against. There was a bathroom, through a door to her left, but she knew that she couldn't shower by herself. Even if she'd had the strength to get herself up off the bed, even if she didn't have an IV in her hand, even if she hadn't been high on painkillers, she wouldn't be able to lift her arms enough to remove the gown or wash. The torn muscles of her anterior deltoids and the stitches in her abdomen would see to that.

There was nothing that she could do. So she lay there, in the quiet of the hospital room, waiting for the sleep that wouldn't come.

* * *

She was still awake half an hour later, when a different nurse poked her head through the door.

"Dr Brennan?"

With a start, she fumbled for the button that would raise the bed to a sitting position.

"Yes?"

"Are you up to seeing a few people?"

She hesitated. The word no bubbled instinctively on her lips. She didn't really want to see anyone right now. Possibly not ever. But at the same time… it was very quiet in the hospital room, and she found that she craved distraction. She didn't want to be alone.

The nurse misread her hesitation.

"That's okay, I can tell them to come back later." She looked anxious at the thought, and Brennan was surprised to feel a distant flicker of amusement crawl up through the numbness and the haze. She was fairly certain she knew who was waiting to come in, and had she been in the nurse's position, she probably wouldn't have wanted to tell them that they couldn't see her, either.

"No… no, it's okay."

"You sure?"

_No_.

"Yes. I mean… who is it?"

She thought she knew the answer, but all the same, she wasn't really in the mood to be surprised.

"That would be your 'husband' Seeley Booth, and your 'sister' Angela Montenegro," the nurse answered with a conspiratorial smile, using her fingers to air-quote the titles.

Brennan frowned slightly at the nurse's words.

"I assume by your use of 'air-quotes' that you are well aware that I'm not married and I don't have a sister."  
The nurse looked momentarily taken aback, but rallied.

"Of course, honey… I mean, Dr Brennan. But hospital regulations state that only immediate family can visit outside of the normal hours. So, if anyone asks, they are your husband, and your sister… so, should I send them in?"

Brennan paused again, turning the question over in her mind. The biggest part of her, the loudest part – it said no. It wasn't rational; she realised that. But she was tired, and she was sore, and the thought of having to explain, of having to talk – it made her want to curl up into a ball and sleep for several thousand years. Seeing them… it would make it real.

She turned back towards the nurse, who was watching her with a sympathetic smile. Taking a deep breath, then wincing as the movement jarred her ribs, she nodded once. She was going to have to see them sometime. There was no getting around it. It may as well be now, when she was medicated.

"Okay."

The nurse shut the door quietly, once again leaving Brennan alone with her thoughts. She found herself wondering if she could get away with not telling Booth and Angela exactly what had happened, if she could just pretend that she'd been beaten up. For a moment, she felt a wave of warm relief, and she wondered why she hadn't thought of it sooner. And then, with an uncomfortable flash of memory, she realised what Booth would have seen when he found her. She shut her eyes. Booth wasn't naive, and he wasn't stupid. And she wasn't that good a liar.

_He knows. _

She took a deep breath, trying not to examine too closely how she felt about that, given that there was precisely nothing she could do about it. For a moment, her thoughts drifted back to that moment in her office, the night before she was due to leave on her vacation, to the look in his eyes, to the words he'd said. She swallowed hard. She didn't want to think about that either, she realised, wondering at the sense of loss that prickled her skin.

Clenching and unclenching her hands, watching the ridge of tendons appear, then disappear, she tried to calm herself. The tap on the door made her jump.

"Sweetie?" The door eased open, and Angela entered.

"Hi, Ang." Her voice was hoarse, and Angela looked down at her, the shock evident on her face.

"Oh, my God… Bren…" She pressed a hand to her mouth, then swallowed hard and sat down on the bed beside her.

"Do I look that bad?" She was aiming for a light tone, but she suspected that it hadn't quite worked. She didn't question why she was trying so hard to appear unaffected. She had a feeling it was more for her own benefit than Angela's.

Angela smiled weakly.

"Oh, no sweetie, you look … just perfect."

They both knew she was lying. Though she hadn't seen a mirror, Brennan could feel the swollen lump that stretched over her cheekbone, the cut over her eyebrow, the burning scratches on her cheek.

Angela wiped her face briefly as a tear made its way down her face. She was quiet, obviously uncomfortable, searching for the right words. So she definitely knew, then. Brennan felt a pang of sadness make it's way through the sedative cloud. This stiltedness, the silence… it was new.

Angela cleared her throat and gestured to the door.

"Booth's here… he's just getting changed. He…"

The knock interrupted her, and Booth opened the door. His shoelaces were untied, Brennan noted distantly, suddenly remembering the smell that she couldn't place earlier, and that feeling of warmth. His jacket. The memory popped into her head, fully formed, disturbing in its clarity. He'd taken off his jacket, the Northface one with the fleece lining, had covered her with it as he untied her. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, feeling a wave of embarrassment boil through her blood. And then with a strange surge of guilt, she wondered where the jacket had ended up. It was his favourite.

"Hey, Bones."

His voice was quiet, and there was a tone to it that she couldn't quite identify.

She opened her eyes. Framed in the doorway, he paused for a moment, the light from the hallway spilling over his shoulders. He looked exhausted, shadows under his eyes and stubble darkening his jaw, the faint lines around his mouth etched deeper than normal. Glancing up, she met his gaze, the relief in his eyes stark and undiluted.

It was too much.

Wanting to look away, and yet somehow unable to, she watched as he rubbed a hand over his mouth, a lump in her throat. She swallowed. After a moment, he took a deep breath, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth, a poor cousin of his usual grin.

"So I guess this means you get to have a gun, now," he said casually.

She heard in his voice the same failed joking tone she had tried for earlier.

"Well. That's something, I guess," she replied softly. Then she wrinkled her nose as he sat down in the chair to her left.

"Have you been smoking?"

He looked at her in surprise, a guilty expression crossing his features, and then nodded once.

"Yeah. Momentary lapse. Trust me, it won't happen again."

He was quiet then, just for a second. Angela shifted slightly on the bed beside her, and Brennan could feel the words they weren't saying, hanging in the air between them, heavy and tangible. She could see the muscles in Booth's jaw twisting, and then he opened his mouth to speak. Tensing, she waited for the question that she had heard ad nauseum since she'd come to. If anyone else asked her how she felt, she'd start throwing things at the walls.

"How much do you remember?" He asked hesitantly.

Too much.

Images flashed behind her eyes, and she paused for a second, trying to push them down. She wished she could sleep.

"There's a few… gaps, but…" she trailed off. She didn't really want to talk about it.

"That's okay, sweetie, you don't… I'm just glad you're okay." Angela interrupted from beside her.

Okay. A relative term, she supposed. It wasn't really the word she would have chosen to describe how she felt right now. She didn't even have the words to describe how she felt right now.

Booth looked over her carefully, his eyes darker than usual. And then he reached out, his large hand covering hers, warm and rough. She tried not to flinch away from the touch.

"I'm glad you're safe, Bones."

She nodded, feeling her breath catch in her throat at his words, at his use of her much-hated nickname. She didn't mind it, just then. It was familiar. She didn't try to respond. Safe. She could live with that.

* * *

He had felt her flinch under his hand, though he didn't show it. Realising that she was doing everything she could to keep herself under control, he had let it slide. And then had kicked himself for being so stupid. He had realised his mistake as soon as his hand touched hers, too late to correct it without it being obvious what he was doing. It was just instinct, meant to comfort her as much as himself. He was so used to touching her – a hand on the small of the back, a hug, a playful nudge in the ribs… His mind flashed back to a long ago seminar, which he'd taken shortly after joining the bureau: Protocol and Procedural Sensitivity in Sexual Assault Victims.

"Agents, male agents especially, should be aware that in the immediate aftermath of an assault of this nature, many victims will find the presence of a male threatening. Physical contact, of any sort, should be avoided insofar as it is possible, as it has a propensity to cause flash-backs."

He had only really paid minimal attention at the time, given that he wasn't going into the Special Victims division. Now… he wished he could go back and take notes. He glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror, through the steam. Bones was with Pullman and Black right now, being interviewed. Angela had volunteered to stay at the hospital while it happened, telling him to go home, to sleep, and to have a shower. He'd made the mistake of asking them if he could stay with her, knowing how difficult the interview would be. Pullman had shot him down in a second.

_"No, Booth."_

_"But…"_

_"No. It's going to be hard enough for her to tell us the things she has to, to go into the detail that we need. Do you really think it'll make it easier for her to do that with you sitting right there next to her?"_

She was right, of course. She wouldn't want him to hear what she had to say anymore than he himself wanted to hear it. He knew that it was his own protective instincts kicking in; his own selfish need to keep her within his sights, to make himself feel better with the knowledge that she was okay. With a sigh, he stepped into the shower, feeling the water, hot and refreshing, relaxing his body. Angela had told him to sleep. Instead, he had punched the shit out of the speedball and punching bag in his apartment. And now, spent and sore, knuckles bruised, he washed away the sweat, feeling slightly calmer.

There were things he had to do, people to call. He ran through the list in his head. Call Cam; let her know what had happened. Call the Crime Scene techs to see if he could go back to her place to grab some of her clothes. Call Rebecca; let her know he couldn't pick Parker up tonight. Call Dr Wyatt. God knew he didn't want to do that, but he'd spoken to Cullen an hour ago, and had been told in no uncertain terms that it was compulsory for Brennan to speak to someone; otherwise she would not be authorised to return to fieldwork. Dr Wyatt seemed the most reasonable choice, given that Bones both knew him and respected him.

Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around himself. As he spread shaving cream on his face, he found himself watching his hands. Saw hers, small and white under his own. Saw them, bound and motionless above her head. He knew her hands almost as well as he did his own, was so used to watching them as she worked, as she spoke. Gentle, delicate, so unlike the rest of her, he'd often thought that they revealed more of her than she realised. Especially when she was angry. Memories of the last argument they'd had flickered in his head, and he stopped for a moment, unable and unwilling to stop the show-reel in his mind. Her hands clenched in fists beside her as she yelled at him. Her hands, spread out in front of her on her desk, white knuckled. Her hands, flat against his chest, tangled in his shirt. He exhaled, pushing the memory away. _So not the time, Booth. _He had things to do. Dressing quickly, he headed out the door.

* * *

**Questions? Thoughts? Comments? Flames? Send them my way, they will all be welcomed. (Well, not so much the flames. But they will be laughed at!)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:**** These Days**

**Rating:**** T, for subject matter and a few colourful language choices**

**Disclaimer:****I don't own Bones; I merely toy with them for my own amusement. If I did own them, do you think I'd put them through this?**

**Also, the title of this fic comes from the Powderfinger song of the same name, though this is not a song fic. If you haven't heard of Powderfinger, look them up. You won't be sorry.**

**Pairings:****Bones and Booth, eventually. Also a little Angela/Hodgins**

**Warning:****This story deals with sexual assault. If you are particularly sensitive to this, I would suggest not reading this fic. While I will not be going into graphic or gratuitous detail, most of the procedural information is accurate, and people who have experienced it may find it distressing.**

**A/N:**** Thanks to everyone for your reviews and feedback, they definitely keep me writing. As always, please let me know what you think, whether you loved it or hated it. I always appreciate constructive criticism. **

* * *

They had finally let her shower, albeit with a nurse. It hadn't helped as much as she'd thought it would. She found that even now, scrubbed and shampooed, and dressed in a pair of normal pyjamas rather than the horrible paper gown, she still felt like there was a residue left behind that the industrial soap hadn't come close to removing. Brennan tried to brush the thought away as she turned to face the agents sitting next to her bed, tried to find some modicum of calm to get her through what was to come. Feeling Booth and Angela's absence, still she was glad that they had not been allowed to stay for this.

"Dr Brennan. I'm Agent Roy Black, this is Agent Sarah Pullman. Firstly, let me say that I'm sorry we had to meet in such circumstances," said Black, setting a voice recorder on the table beside her. He was a tall man, early forties maybe, with a significant paunch. Booth had described him as 'old-school' as he left, which she thought meant that he was old-fashioned in his professional approach. She wasn't sure if Booth had meant it as an insult or a compliment.

Brennan pulled at the bed cover.

"Me too."

Pullman smiled at her sympathetically, flipping to a clean page in her notebook.

"Dr Brennan, we're going to have to ask you some difficult questions. It's not going to be easy, so take your time. If you need us to stop, just let us know, okay? But as I'm sure you know, given your work with Agent Booth, it's really important that we get as much information from you as we possibly can."

She nodded her assent, feeling a sudden rush of apprehension.

Pullman nodded at Black, who cleared his throat. Reaching over and clicking on the tape recorder, he spoke.

"Special Agents Roy Black and Sarah Pullman interviewing Dr Temperance Brennan. The date is twenty-fifth January, oh-eight, time is three fourteen pm. Initial victim statement follows…"

* * *

She had been talking for forty-five minutes, and her mouth was dry. Reaching for the water glass, her hands shook, and as she tightened her grip, she found herself hoping that the agents hadn't noticed. She felt spent, wearier than she ever had in her life, and the words she had to speak didn't come easily. Taking another sip of water, focusing on the way it felt in her mouth, she tried to tune back in to what Black was saying. The agent was reading back through his notes. There were a lot of them, page upon page of black inked chicken scratch. Her words, on paper. It made it more real, somehow. More permanent.

"…So, just to clarify, Dr Brennan, you say you had arranged a taxi to drive you to the airport, and you answered your door, believing that it was the driver?"

"Yes," she replied, seeing the door open in her mind, the big hands reach out. Feeling the rough cotton cloth against her nose and mouth. Smelling the cloying chemicals that laced it. A wave of nausea gripped her, and she breathed shallowly. She wanted this over with.

"But he wasn't dressed as a driver?"

"No."

"So why did you let him in?" She told herself that she was imagining the accusing note in the agent's voice. After all, it was the same question she'd been asking herself.

"The camera… that showed the front door of the building. It had broken, a few days earlier. I'd… I was working; I hadn't had a chance to tell the super. I thought … I was going to do it when I got back from my vacation."

"Right."

A brief pause followed, the room filled with the scratching of pen on paper.

"And do you remember how much time passed, between you answering the door and when you woke up?"

"It would be about … maybe an hour? I mean – I know answered the door at ten to seven; I remember thinking that the cab was early… and I saw the clock in my room when I… when I came to… it was just after eight."

"And you were tied up."

His tone was matter-of-fact, almost casual. The bluntness of it startled her for a moment, and she hesitated. It was comforting, in an odd way. At the very least, she found it less disturbing than Pullman's understanding smiles and reassuring nods.

"Yes."

"In what way?"

"I don't understand."

Pullman jumped in to clarify.

"What Agent Black means is, how were you tied up? Was it just your hands?"

_Just? _

Brennan could hear the clock ticking across the room. Opening her mouth, she tried to respond. The words stuck in her throat, and she tried again.

"Yes. Just my hands."

"How were your hands tied?" Pullman's voice was gentle. It didn't help.

Brennan stared up at the ceiling.

"There were ropes around each of my wrists, and the rope was fixed to my bed." Her eyes were burning.

"Okay."

Looking down, she caught the barely perceptible nod between the agents. She recognised the gesture as something that Booth did it all the time. With him, it usually meant that he had what he needed. She very much hoped that this was the case here.

"Almost done, Dr Brennan. Just one last question. You said…" Black paused as he flipped back through the pages of his notebook. "Okay, yes, you said that the assailant 'left'. When was that?"

"It was…late. I'm not sure what time it was."

"Late? Can you narrow it down a little more?" asked Black, the slightest hint of frustration creeping into his voice.

Brennan felt a streak of anger flare inside her, a tiny, pointless rebellion. It was gone before she could grasp it, dissipating into the grey fog of tiredness.

"I wasn't exactly looking at the clock," she said quietly, pointedly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pullman shake her head slightly at Black before turning back towards the bed.

"That's completely understandable, Dr Brennan. I think what Agent Black was trying to ascertain was how much time had passed between the assailant leaving and Agent Booth arriving."

"I… I really don't know. There was…" She stopped for a moment. After a beat, she continued. "Someone knocked on the door, and then… I heard it open, but the chain was on the door. He… hit me with something, and I lost consciousness. I don't know how long for. And then…"

_Sudden silence, so loud she thought she could hear her heart beating. Her name, repeated over and over, a note of panic changing the voice that spoke it. The rasp of a knife, cutting through blue nylon rope. Her arms dropping to her sides with a dull thud. A jacket, still warm with body heat, covering her. Hands smoothing the knotted tangles of hair away from her face._

She didn't want to remember.

"…Booth was there."

Black nodded slowly, considering that, and then turned to Pullman.

"That fits with what the super said. So it would have been about half an hour before Booth got there," he said thoughtfully. Flipping his notebook shut, he reached out and shut off the tape.

"Okay, Dr Brennan. That's all we need for now. You did really well," said Pullman, placing a hand on her arm. Brennan shifted slightly, and the agent removed it.

Black stood.

"We'll be in touch, Dr Brennan, we'll need to speak to you again. And obviously we'll let you know if we make any headway in the case. Ah… am I right in assuming that it's okay for us to discuss the case with Agent Booth?"

She nodded silently, ignoring the sympathetic look that Pullman gave her as she packed up. Black had opened the door, and was already out when Pullman spoke.

"Dr Brennan…"

Just leave! 

"Yes?"

"Your apartment… you won't be able to go back there for a while. Dr Rainer said you should be out of here in a couple of days. Is there somewhere where you can stay, until…"

She swallowed. She didn't plan on going back to the apartment. Ever. She opened her mouth to respond, but a male voice got in first.

"She's got somewhere." Booth stood just inside the doorway, a large duffel bag, one of hers, in his hand.

"Booth…" she started, but her heart wasn't in it. She had meant it to be an interjection, but was suddenly uncomfortably aware that it sounded like something else. A plea.

There were shadows under her eyes. She looked exhausted, and he heard the defeated note in her voice, heard what she didn't say. Answering the intent of the words, if not the tone, he shook his head, a half-smile on his face.

"Don't start, Bones."

"I can stay with Angela, or in a hotel," she pointed out quietly.

"You could," he conceded, "but you're not going to."

He wasn't just offering for her benefit, not entirely. He knew that if she didn't stay with him, he wouldn't sleep. And he was tired. Too tired to pretend that there was any other option he'd consider. Setting down the duffle bag, he turned back to her, just in time to catch the look of irritation that crossed her face.

"Booth, I don't need you to…"

He cut her off before she could continue.

"Bones, please. For once in your life, can you just not argue with me? Can you just pretend we already had the argument, and I won? Because right now, to be completely honest, you do need me to."

She opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it, the baldness of the statement shocking her into silence. After a moment, she nodded slightly, turning her gaze away from him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then drew in a breath and turned back to Pullman, who had watched this interaction silently

"All settled."

The agent had a thoughtful look on her face.

"So, I guess you've got somewhere, then," she said to Brennan.

Brennan's eyes met his, her expression carefully blank.

"Yeah. I guess I do."

* * *

It was late, and Angela had headed home for the night, swaying with tiredness. Booth made a mental note to talk to her tomorrow, see if she wanted to talk to Dr Wyatt as well. The hospital room was lit with lamps, and it was warm. He had his back to the bed, unpacking the things he'd gotten from Brennan's apartment. He hadn't stayed there long, hadn't expected it to disturb him as much as it did.

The crime scene technicians barely glanced at him as he flashed his badge and pushed his way past the yellow tape that criss-crossed the front door. They were examining her bed as he entered her bedroom for the second time in twelve hours, and he paused in the doorway, feeling his stomach tighten as they pulled back her bed cover. He resolutely turned away from it, moving towards her dresser. Behind him, he heard one of the techs mention that there was blood on the rope, and he had a sudden childish impulse to put his fingers in his ears. Instead, he pulled open her drawers, feeling like a voyeur, hating that he had to do this. In fact, Angela had volunteered, but he hadn't wanted her to see the apartment before it was cleaned. And so he stood here now, pulling sweaters and sweatpants, tee shirts and underwear, cardigans and jeans out of her drawers, wondering what she'd want to wear. Comfort. That was what he'd want. What he wanted for her.

_Quickly flipping through the neatly folded pile, his hand closed on soft cotton. He unfolded the sweater in his hand, feeling a jolt of recognition. It was his, he realised, a hooded zip up sweater from his days in the academy at Quantico. A small smile curled his lips as he remembered how it had come to be in Bones' possession. They had been on a case, human bones that had been found in a muddy paddock in rural Virginia. They'd only been at the scene for twenty minutes when the sky had turned gunmetal grey and it started to pour with rain. And when he'd gone to his car to retrieve their rain jackets, he had realised that he hadn't returned them to their usual spot after cleaning his car out the previous weekend. She hadn't said anything when he had confessed this to her, had just gritted her teeth and given him a look that was as eloquent as it was frightening. _

_To his credit, he had felt guilty as he watched her, on her knees in the mud, from the relative comfort of the barn where he was interviewing the owner. She had already sent him_ _back inside when he'd gone out to help, saying, with her usual bluntness, that there was no point in them both being wet and cold, just because he was an idiot. When they returned to his car, an hour and half later, she was shivering, her hair plastered to her head, rain-darkened and dripping. And so he had reached into the backseat for his gym bag and had thrown her a pair of his sweat pants and the sweater, inwardly grateful that he'd remembered to wash them for once. They had looked ridiculously large on her, the sweater swallowing her small frame, the pants hanging low on her hips, even with the waistband tied, and he'd been struck with the thought that she would look beautiful wearing a paper-bag. _

_Shaking his head now, he ran his fingers over the faded blue of the sweater. She had kept it. Not only that, but she'd been wearing it, judging by slight fraying of the sleeves. Moved by a sudden instinct, he brought it to his face. It smelt like her, like soap and jasmine and the talcum powder that lined her latex gloves, over top of the faintest remaining scent of his own cologne. After a moment's hesitation, he placed the sweater in the bag. Comfort. He was pretty sure this fit the bill. _

She was saying something to him. Turning from the bag, he glanced over at her.

"What was that, Bones?"

Her voice was raspy, tinged with exhaustion, but she was still awake.

"I said, thanks for getting my things."

Sitting down in the uncomfortable chair to her right, he stretched his shoulders.

"Not a problem."

After a brief silence, a tired half smile touched her lips, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Did you have fun, snooping through my clothes?"

He smiled, and without thinking, replied, "Yeah. Wouldn't have picked you for the granny panties sort of girl, Bones."

It was an automatic response, the sort of thing he said to her all the time, the sort of statement she'd respond to by throwing something at him, and groaning.

Now, though, realising what he'd said, how inappropriate it sounded, he froze, and then opened his mouth to apologise.

She stopped him with a shake of her head. There was a hint of a challenge in her eyes, underneath the embarrassment. Daring him not to treat her differently, to not let what had happened to her change how he acted around her.

"You obviously weren't looking in the right drawer," she said, raising an eyebrow.

He felt the flush make its way up his neck, but recovered. Forcing an answering smile, he responded like nothing had changed. Like he hadn't confessed everything to her. Like his heart hadn't stopped when he'd found her, bloody and broken.

"Yeah, I opened the other one, but I gotta say, the leather and studs freaked me out a little, Bones."

Surprised, she laughed, and then winced, raising a hand to her stomach. Booth looked at her in concern.

"You okay? Need some more drugs?"

She shook her head, pale-faced.

"No… no, it's fine. It's just my ribs. Laughing stretches the intercostal muscles, which moves them. Plus, there's the cut."

Sitting down in the uncomfortable chair next to her bed, he wondered whether an four inch slice that had required eighteen stiches could be considered just a 'cut', but he didn't share the thought.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have…"

Shaking her head, she closed her eyes.

"It's fine. It feels… it's good to laugh."

"Mmmm."

More silence.

"So… how'd it go, with Pullman and Black?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. He could feel his muscles tightening, and his back protested as he tried to find a more comfortable position. Her eyes were still closed. She didn't answer immediately, and he wondered if she'd finally fallen asleep. The she sighed.

"I think I understand now why you're always telling me to not be so clinical in interviews," she said slowly.

"Yeah?" He waited, hoping and not hoping that she'd elaborate.

"Yes." She opened her eyes, but didn't look at him. He could see her picking her words carefully, and he felt a pang at the sight. She wasn't usually so careful around him.

"I didn't think it'd be so… It was hard."

"I thought it might be."

She shifted slightly, fiddling with the plastic ID tag around her wrist.

"It's strange, Booth. I mean… they're just words, right? Saying them shouldn't… but they…" she trailed off, then tried again. "Every time I told them something, I could see it." Her voice was calm, almost detached, but he could see her other hand, bunched tightly in the bedspread. He frowned.

"That's… that's pretty normal, Bones."

She shook her head.

"Not for me, Booth. I'm… You know what I'm like. I haven't got the same social filters you do. You're always telling me that I'm inappropriately explicit at times. But they were asking me… they wanted to know exactly what he'd… what had happened, and I couldn't even say it. I still can't." Her eyes were cloudy, and she blinked a few times. He could hear the frustration and hurt in her words. Instinctively, he reached out a hand, then remembered himself and pulled it back. Feeling utterly useless, he swallowed.

"I should let you rest, Bones. You need to sleep," he murmured, wishing there was something else he could say.

She took a deep breath, releasing her grip on the blanket.

"Yes. Yes, I know."

He stood then, picked up his jacket and paused at the foot of her bed.

"You need anything else? Water… shot of Jack?" It was a crappy joke.

"No. You should go home. You probably need to get some sleep as well," she replied quietly.

He watched her for a moment, trying to read her expression, as she shifted slightly in the bed, trying to get comfortable. Then he smiled, dropping his jacket back on his chair.

"On second thoughts, you know, that magazine the nurse dropped off looked pretty interesting. Maybe I'll just hang out for a while, read that."

Flopping himself back into the chair, he picked up the magazine from the table

"Modern Woman?"

"Yeah. I've always wanted to know what my colours were. I've always felt that I shouldn't be wearing blue. Clashes with my eyes. You mind?"

She was quiet for a moment, regarding him from the bed.

"No. No, I don't mind."

She was asleep within minutes, finally giving in to the drugs and exhaustion. Booth watched her, in the quiet peace of the room, then placed the ridiculous magazine on the table.

"Damn," he muttered softly, running a hand through his hair. After a moment of hesitation, he hit the switch on the lamp and leaned back in the chair. Uncomfortable or not, he wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter, you'll find out what the argument was about, I promise, and it'll be up within the next week. The prolonging of the suspense is not entirely intentional, I just don't want to make the chapters too long.**

**Reviews make me happy, and are the only payment I get. Please let me know what you thought. I'm not too proud to beg:)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:**** These Days**

**Rating:**** T, for subject matter and a few colourful language choices**

**Disclaimer:****I don't own Bones; I merely toy with them for my own amusement. If I did own them, do you think I'd put them through this?**

**Pairings:****Bones and Booth, eventually. Also a little Angela/Hodgins**

**Warning:****PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE PROCEEDING**

**This story deals with sexual assault. If you are particularly sensitive to this, I would suggest not reading this fic. **

**While I will not be going into graphic or gratuitous detail, most of the procedural information is accurate, and people who have experienced it may find it distressing.**

**A/N:****A few things before I get into this chapter: Firstly, sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up. Computer viruses and a promotion at work are not conducive to getting a lot of writing done, unfortunately.**

**Secondly, thank you again to everyone who reviewed. Again, I always love getting constructive criticism, so please don't be shy if you've got something to say.**

**On that note, however, I want to address a couple of concerns that have been raised. I'd like to clarify that it is absolutely not my intention to use the subject matter gratuitously or for shock value. While I don't think it's necessary to explain why I've chosen this subject as the jumping off point for a fic, I will say that I do understand that it's a sensitive subject, and again, I urge everyone to read the warning. If you are not comfortable with the subject matter, for whatever reason, then please do not read the fic. **

**Right, enough of that. On with the fic!**

* * *

"Agent Booth."

Booth looked up from his coffee, watching the portly, genial man make his way over to the table, exchanging pleasantries with the waitress as he walked. Booth stood, extending his hand.

"Dr Wyatt. Thanks for coming."

Gordon shook his hand with a smile, and then eased himself into the seat opposite Booth.

"A pleasure, albeit an unexpected one, Agent Booth. I must admit, I was rather surprised when you called. I had rather assumed that you had had enough Freudian analysis to last you for several lifetimes." He paused, smiling up at the waitress as she placed a cup of tea in front of him.

Booth nodded, acknowledging the truth of the statement with a wry smile.

"Yeah. To be completely honest with you, Doc, I would rather that I hadn't had to call you, either. No offence intended." He took a sip of his coffee, then grimaced, reaching for the sugar.

"None taken, I assure you. So, you mentioned on the phone that this related to the lovely Dr. Brennan? How may I be of assistance?"

Booth stirred his coffee slowly.

"She… God, there's really no easy way to say it. Bones was… someone broke into her house. Attacked her. She…"

It didn't get easier, the more often he said it. Just more real. He placed the spoon on the table, watching the watery sunlight move across the metal.

"She was raped."

"Oh. Oh dear… Agent Booth… I'm so sorry. Is she… are her injuries serious?"

Shaking his head slowly, Booth took another sip of his coffee. It still tasted bitter.

"She… physically, she's okay … I mean, the doctors say she's going to be fine. She'll be out of the hospital in a couple of days. But Cullen – you remember my boss?" At the doctor's nod, he continued. "Cullen said that she needs to speak to a therapist if she's going to continue her field work."

Gordon nodded in understanding as he added milk to his tea.

"And you thought of me. Well, I'd be more than happy to help, so long as Dr Brennan is willing. As I recall, she's not particularly fond my ilk."

Booth sighed, leaning back against the red vinyl of the seat.

"Yeah, well… she likes you, Doc. And she respects you. She's more likely to talk to you than some randomly assigned quack."

The doctor smiled at that.

"Well, I'll grant you that point, however bluntly stated."

"So you'll talk to her? When she's ready, I mean?"

"Of course, of course. Just let me know when the time is right, and we'll arrange something."

Booth nodded.

"Thanks, doc."

They sat in silence for a moment, both sipping their drinks. He could feel Gordon's eyes on him, watching him in the slightly disconcerting omniscient way that he had.

"And how are you coping, Agent Booth?"

Slightly taken aback, Booth swallowed.

"I'm… I'm fine. It's not like… it didn't happen to me, Doc."

Raising a single eyebrow, Gordon sat back in his chair. "No? It's quite well documented that the significant others of the victims in types of cases tend to experience emotional difficulties, much as the victims themselves do."

Booth shook his head. He should have expected this, he realised, marvelling resentfully at the doctor's ability. The man was practically clairvoyant.

"She's not my 'significant other'," he said shortly.

Gordon sighed. Booth was surprised to see that he looked genuinely disappointed.

"No? Right. So I can surmise, then, that you are still yet to tell Dr Brennan the true nature of your feelings for her? I must admit, that surprises me."

Booth shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn't really want to be talking about this. In fact, he was pretty certain he'd be happy to not talk about this, ever. But he'd long since learned that trying to hide things from Gordon Gordon was an exercise in futility. With a resigned sigh, he spoke.

"I did tell her. Last week."

Had it really only been five days? It felt like a lifetime had passed since then.

Frowning in confusion, Gordon processed this.

"But you said… oh. Oh dear."

Booth nodded as the doctor's face cleared.

"Yeah," he said quietly, looking down at the table.

Gordon took another sip of tea, and then asked delicately, "And… how did that go?"

Booth exhaled, a bitter laugh dying on his lips.

"Not well."

_

* * *

_

_Her face was six inches away from the skeleton, and the lab was quiet save for the steady hum of the fluorescent lights. Leaning against the computer table, he watched her as she bent herself over the lab table, the backlight throwing her cheekbones into sharp relief. With the tip of one gloved finger, she turned a bone onto its side, brow furrowing in concentration, and he bit his lip to keep from smiling at the sight. Her mouth twisted slightly, the way it always did when she was deep in thought, and she reached out blindly, one hand closing confidently on the tweezers. A quick scrape of the bone, and her expression cleared, confusion replaced with a look of informed satisfaction. She pulled the magnifying lamp closer, and squinted through it._

_He'd been watching her a lot, lately. He was surprised she hadn't caught him yet. Though, he reflected, she wasn't really the type of woman to notice anyone admiring her. It wasn't that she was unaware of her beauty; she was both too smart and not smart enough for false modesty. No, she knew she was beautiful, but he suspected she just genuinely didn't care. She accepted it as one of the least remarkable things about her, inhabited it with a sort of careless confidence that people couldn't help but notice. It was one of the things that he found so fascinating about her. A surprising woman, he'd said to her once. And she still surprised him. Constantly._

_He wished he could pinpoint it – that exact moment when he realised his feelings for her went beyond simple friendship. He couldn't. His attraction to her had snuck up on him, an infiltration so absolute that he couldn't actually remember what it had felt like to struggle to make conversation with her, so encompassing that the memory of feeling uncomfortable in her presence seemed ridiculous._

_She challenged him. Infuriated him more than any woman he'd ever met. Got on every last nerve that he had, pushed every button. But she made him better, because of it. More than that, she made him want to be better. He'd never known a woman who was so willing to call him on his bullshit, someone who was willing to go toe-to-toe with him, who would get in his face and give as good as she got._

_On his bad days, the days where it all seemed too hard, he tried to tell himself that it was just sexual attraction, just lust, pure and simple, borne out of close proximity and too many late nights. It didn't always feel like a lie. Not when she was yelling at him, and he was yelling at her, and desire fought with anger, indistinguishable and potent._

_In his honest moments, though, his three-am, pacing-the-floorboards, alone-in-the-dark moments, when the bravado and the pride were stripped away, he knew that it went far beyond that. Yes, he wanted to sleep with her; he was only human. But that, in and of itself – he knew it wouldn't be enough. Could never be enough, not with her. He didn't just want her; he wanted all of her – the woman that screamed at him, and the woman who hugged him when she was scared. The woman who could beat up a gang leader, and the woman who listened as he poured out his secrets._

_He loved her._

_And it scared the living hell out of him. He was not a man used to uncertainty, especially where women were concerned, but Bones…she was inscrutable. Yes, there were moments – that glance held just a second too long, that touch that lingered a second longer than friendship could explain – but they were always gone too soon, leaving him to doubt what he thought he saw in her eyes, making him feel like a thirteen year old girl with a crush. And if he was honest with himself, he knew that even if she did feel more for him that just friendship, it didn't necessarily mean that everything would be happily ever after. It scared him, because even though he knew this, even though he feared the cost of wanting more could be not having her in his life at all, it was still getting harder to pretend. Damn near impossible. There were times when he could almost taste the words in his mouth._

_It scared him, because he knew that sooner or later, he would say them._

_"Booth. Booth!"_

_"Huh?"_

_She was looking up at him, an expectant look on her face._

_"Booth, are you even listening to me?"_

_He shook himself._

_"Sorry, Bones, spaced out for a second there. What were you saying?"_

_She gave him a strange look, then turned back toward the plasma screen to her left, and he smiled to himself._

_"I was saying that if you look here, you can see the abrasion marks on the cervical vertebrae. I thought that it may be from the neck being twisted at an angle, but I was wrong. This is not a murder. The abrasions are from a genetic condition, not from external trauma. This person died of natural causes."_

_Booth nodded slowly._

_"So… great! That means we're done, right?" He asked, rubbing his hands together._

_She surveyed the table in front of her, then nodded, unpeeling the latex gloves from her hands._

_"Yes. Zach can clean the bones tomorrow, and arrange for them to be sent back to the coroner. What time is it?" She removed her lab coat and stretched, the movement exposing a sliver of skin on her abdomen. Booth watched, transfixed, just for a moment, then caught himself, glancing at his watch. He never would have thought that an inch of skin could look like that. Sexy as all hell, his mind filled in helpfully. He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very warm._

_"Uh…8.43 pm," he replied, as they made their way up to the stairs to her office._

_She hung up her lab coat, and then grabbed a few files off her desk._

_"What's with the files? You're not taking them away with you, are you?" He asked shrewdly. She hesitated, looking slightly guilty._

_"They're the last few chapters of my manuscript. I just have to look over a couple of revisions my editor wants me to make."_

_He shook his head._

_"Bones, this is supposed to be a vacation. You know, where you lie on the beach and drink overpriced cocktails with umbrellas in them and don't do any work?"_

_"It's not 'work' work. It's writing. I find it therapeutic. And I can still lie on the beach and drink the umbrella drinks. I'll just have my laptop with me," she said with a smile._

_"Call me old-fashioned, but I think that kind of defeats the purpose," he said, and with a mischievous smile, reached for the files in her hand. "So, what is the dashing Andy Lister getting up to in this one?"_

_She quickly pulled the files towards herself, and he watched with interest as a slight blush coloured her cheeks. Making a mental note to read the last few chapters of this book carefully, he relented._

_"You feel like going for a drink?" he asked._

_"No," she said absently, shoving some papers into her bag. He raised his eyebrows, more amused than hurt. He was used to her bluntness._

_"Jeez, Bones, don't sugar-coat it or anything," he joked._

_She looked up at him, confused. "What? Oh. I mean, I can't. I've got to finish packing…or start packing, actually, and my taxi's picking me up early, so…"_

_"You're catching a cab to the airport? Do you…I mean, I can drive you, if you want."_

_She shook her head._

_"No, that's okay. The travel agency I went through offers it as a complementary service."_

_He pulled on his coat._

_"Well, if you want someone to pick you up when you get back in, just let me know."_

_She nodded, a smile playing around the edge of her mouth._

_"Thanks. I asked Angela, but she may need a chaperone. The last time she picked me up from the airport she ended up flashing her underwear just to find out what time my plane landed."_

_Booth laughed._

_"Well, in that case, babe, I'm there." The endearment slipped from his mouth before he could stop it, but she if she noticed, she didn't say anything._

_"I don't think it's a given that there'll be a repeat performance, Booth," she remarked with a grin, reaching over the desk to unplug her cell phone charger. He swallowed, and averted his eyes. Her voice was muffled as she spoke._

_"Thanks for your help today, Booth."_

_He laughed at that, grateful for anything that distracted him from the view._

_"What, standing around, being of no use whatsoever? Not a problem. Always glad to be of service."_

_"You help, Booth. You make me eat."_

_"True. You'd look like Nicole Ritchie if it wasn't for me." She opened her mouth, confusion crossing her face, and he continued before she could respond. "And before you ask, she's a celebrity. Scarily thin. Twig-like."_

_She frowned._

_"Actually, I know who she is. I wrote a report for a journal a while back, on societal and anthropological influences on self-harm as it relates to body image. I was just surprised that you do. And that you're comparing me to her." Wrapping a scarf around her neck, she reached down to pick up her bags._

_"Hey, I get bored. Can I help it if the only decipherable reading material in Angela's office is Us Weekly? And I wasn't comparing. More like… contrasting," he replied with a grin, taking the bags from her hand and passing her the folders instead._

_"Semantics, Booth. Somehow I doubt that I will ever be described as 'scarily thin'," she said with a wry smile._

_"No. And trust me, that's a good thing." Forgetting himself for a moment, he cast an appreciative eye over her body. This time, she noticed. Looking strangely pleased, she raised an eyebrow at him._

_His felt his heart beat quicken, as the silence stretched between them. She looked away first, blushing slightly._

_"So…" She cleared her throat. "I, uh… I guess I'll see you when I get back."_

_"Yeah. No Bones for three weeks." His voice sounded strange as he said it, and he glanced at her._

_"You could at least pretend to sound unhappy about it, Booth," she said, misreading his tone. He shrugged awkwardly._

_"Hey, I am unhappy about it. No partner means no cases. Or no good ones, at least. I'll be stuck at my desk while you're working on your tan."_

_She considered this._

_"I don't tan, I burn. And at least you'll get caught up on all the paperwork that you're behind on."_

_Opening the door, he smiled at her clumsy attempt at consolation, and she furrowed her brow at him in confusion._

_"What?"_

Everything.

_"Nothing. I should get going. Goodnight, Bones. Have a good time."_

* * *

"You kissed her?"

Booth glanced up at the doctor.

"Yeah. I didn't even really … it was supposed to be a kiss on the cheek. But…"

"It wasn't."

"No. It really wasn't." The memories, vivid and real, shivered across his skin. How could he describe the feeling of her in his arms, her mouth on his, the smell of her, the heat of her, pressed against him in the darkness of her office? Would it sound ridiculous to say that a reasonably chaste kiss was the most singularly erotic moment of his life to date?

"And she…ah… reciprocated?"

Booth cleared his throat.

"Yeah. Yeah, she did. Initially, at least."

"And then?" Gordon queried, eyebrows raised.

"And then… she stopped. And she asked me what the hell I thought I was doing." He looked down at his coffee, now stone cold, feeling a flush rise on his face as he remembered.

_"What am I doing?" He asked breathlessly. He shook his head, trying to comprehend the rapid change in events. "I kinda thought that was obvious, Bones."_

_Her hair was tousled and her lips were pink, swollen. She pressed a hand to them, and looked up at him. Her files lay forgotten, scattered on the floor._

_"But…why?"_

_Shutting his eyes, he prayed for the ground to swallow him whole._

_"I guess I thought that the answer to that question was pretty obvious, too."_

_"What are you saying, Booth? You have…feelings for me?" Her voice was cold, uncertain. She took a step away then, moving to her desk. He leaned his forehead against the wall for a second, the glass still warm from her skin, his blood still pounding in his veins. This was so not how he had pictured this happening. He turned to face her, steeling himself. No backing out now._

_"Yeah. Yeah, Bones…that's exactly what I'm saying," he said quietly._

_She stood still then, facing him from behind her desk, palms flat as she leaned forward, obviously trying to process what he was saying._

_"But Booth…we're partners… friends…"_

_Taking a deep breath, he stepped towards her._

_"I know that, Bones. I know, okay? But…the feelings are there, and there's not a hell of a lot I can do about them."_

_"How…how long have you…?"_

_"Does it really matter?"_

_"No, I guess not," she murmured. He could sense her retreating, could feel the walls going back up. He sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair._

_"God, Bones… you're killing me here, you know that?"_

_"I'm sorry, Booth, it's just a little…it's a bit of a shock."_

_There was a choice, he knew that. He knew that he could back off, could apologise, to write it off as a heat of the moment, impulsive mistake. He could leave her there, barriers and defences still intact, and preserve what they already had. He knew it was what he should do. But the memory of her lips on his was too fresh. He took a tentative step towards her._

_"Really? Is it really that much of a shock?"_

_She hesitated._

_"Yes. I mean…"_

_Had he really been imagining it, her response to him? The doubt came, thick and fast, sweeping over him like a tidal wave, and he tried to hold it back. No, he hadn't imagined it. He knew he hadn't. He took another step towards her, and she held up her hands, stopping him._

_"I… Booth… I don't know!"_

_He nodded slowly, the fiery rush of blood turning suddenly cold as she spoke. She was watching him, waiting, as he searched for the right words._

_"Yes, you do, Bones. You just don't want to say it," he said softly._

_She wouldn't look at him, and she didn't respond. He shook his head._

_"I guess that says it all then," he muttered, turning to leave. She spoke behind him, and there was frustration in her voice, sharpening it._

_"Stop it, Booth. We're not in an interrogation, and it's not that simple. You're the one who said there were lines that can't be crossed. I might be naïve when it comes to certain things, but even I got the subtext on that one."_

_He turned to her, feeling the first stirrings of anger, at himself, at her, making their way through the confusion. She was throwing that back at him? She was playing that game? He could see the tears in her eyes, though, and with an effort, he controlled his voice._

_"I was scared, Bones. I know what I said. And maybe I was right. But the thing is… that line? I think we already crossed it, long before tonight. You know that. You have to know that."_

_At that, she looked down at the desk. After a moment, she spoke again, and her voice was cold._

_"No. No, I don't know that, Booth. You don't get to… You can't just come in here, and kiss me, and then get angry with me because I'm surprised. And what, I'm supposed to drop everything and throw myself at you? You obviously don't know me as well as you think you do, Booth!"_

_"Oh, I know you, Bones," he said bitterly, unable to stop the caustic sarcasm in his voice. And then he stopped, feeling a wave of shame prickle across his skin. She didn't deserve this. With a sigh, he turned again towards the door. He needed to leave. Now. Before he said something else he'd regret._

_"Booth…"_

_He paused in the doorway, waiting for her to continue. She didn't. There was nothing else to say. He shook his head, realising with a sudden, unforgiving clarity that he might have just lost his best friend._

_"Bones, I'm not going to beg you. I obviously completely misread the situation. I shouldn't have… And right now, I'm… I'm incredibly embarrassed. So I'm… I'm just going to go."_

* * *

"And you left?"

"Yeah…" Booth trailed off. He hadn't spoken about this to anyone, hadn't had the emotional energy to even think about it in the last few days. Sitting here now, though, the pain and humiliation felt as raw as it had that night. He raised his eyes to Dr Wyatt, who was watching him with sympathetic eyes. Booth smiled sardonically and raised his coffee cup in a salute.

"Still as fucked up as ever, doc."

Gordon raised his eyebrows.

"Hmmm. Be that as it may… you haven't talked about it with her? At all?"

He shook his head, and Gordon looked at him, disappointed. He tried to explain.

"I haven't had a chance… I didn't see her until…" he took a breath. "Until I got the call, and found her in her apartment." The doctor's eyes widened.

"Good lord. You were… you found her?"

Booth nodded wordlessly.

"Ahhh. A fine mess, indeed. But we'll come back to that."

Will we? Booth wondered. But the doctor was still speaking.

"Tell me, allowing for the other circumstances… how have things been, between you?"

"Allowing for the circumstances… it's weird, Doc," he said quietly. "I mean, my feelings haven't changed, obviously, but it's not like I'm going to do anything about it. And… even though she doesn't… even though she made it pretty damn clear that all she wants is friendship… I still want to make sure she's okay. It's like… it's almost like it never happened. Like everything that happened after cancelled it out."

Booth was quiet then. A week. It had all happened in the space of a week. It felt like a lifetime.

Gordon took a sip of tea.

"So tell me. How do you feel?"

He wanted to laugh at the clichéd question.

"How do I feel? Worried… tired. Angry. And…" He trailed off.

"And?"

"Nothing."

He had a sneaking suspicion that the doctor knew what he'd been about to say.

* * *

**Thanks for reading guys. If you've got something to say, you know what to do! (And just in case you don't... hit the review button!)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:**** These Days**

**Rating:**** T, for subject matter and a few colourful language choices**

**Disclaimer:**** I don't own Bones; I merely toy with them for my own amusement. If I did own them, do you think I'd put them through this?**

**Pairings:**** Bones and Booth, eventually. Also a little Angela/Hodgins**

**Warning:**** PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE PROCEEDING**

**This story deals with sexual assault. If you are particularly sensitive to this, I would suggest not reading this fic. **

**While I will not be going into graphic or gratuitous detail, most of the procedural information is accurate, and people who have experienced it may find it distressing.**

**A/N:**** Sorry for the delay, people, you have my promises that the next chapter will not take this long! Unfortunately, real life got in the way this week. To everyone that's read and/or reviewed, I am in your debt. I've also been fortunate enough to receive some really in-depth reviews that pointed out a few things to work on and some fantastic constructive criticism. Seriously, people, if you have something to say, positive or negative, let me know! Enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

Angela was talking. A lot.

"So then he found the photos, even though I've told him so many times not to go into that box, and he still has the nerve to get mad with me. I mean, it's art. Naked art, but still… I mean, come on, it's not like he hasn't seen me naked before. I don't get it."

Brennan smiled tightly, knowing exactly what her friend was trying to do. She drew in a breath as the doctor removed the final suture in her stomach. Glancing down across the plane of her bare stomach, she tried to view the scar objectively. It didn't work. The memory was still too close to the surface.

_Metal, cold against her skin. The drag of friction, the sudden burn. Blood, warm and sticky against her belly. The smell of copper in the air. A laugh._

She ran a finger dispassionately over the bloodless pink line, feeling her skin tighten in its wake. It didn't hurt anymore. That was something, at least. The room was quiet, and she realised Angela was waiting for a response. Pulling her hand away, she tried to regain the thread of the conversation.

"They were taken by your ex-boyfriend, Ang."

"Yes. My ex-boyfriend, the artist."

Dr Rainer smiled at them as she unpeeled the latex gloves from her hands.

"Dr Brennan, that cut is healing really well – good granulation, no signs of infection. As for the rest of you… the ribs will be tender for a while yet, as will your arms and shoulders."

The doctor paused for a moment, glancing subtly at Angela, and then raised her brows slightly at Brennan. The delicacy of the unspoken question was answered by Brennan's quick nod.

"The internal stitches should dissolve over the next few days, which should ease some of the discomfort. You'll be able to leave day after tomorrow, but take it easy, okay? I don't want you working for at least two weeks."

Brennan nodded slowly, feeling a distant flicker of – what? Apprehension? Uneasiness? It wasn't that she didn't want to go back to work. She did. She found that she missed the quiet peace of her lab, that she craved that feeling of certainty and order, of cool smooth bone against her hand. But at the same time… it was jarring to realise that the minutiae of everyday life went on, even when everything else fell apart. There were still bills to pay, and groceries to buy, and reports to write. There was still small talk to be made and jokes to be laughed at. Conversations to be had, she acknowledged internally, thinking of Booth, feeling hollow.

She wasn't ready. Not for any of it.

Time hadn't stopped. Life hadn't stopped. She still had to be herself. The problem was, she wasn't sure if she knew how do to do that, not right now.

Glancing up, she looked at the doctor, who was watching her carefully, waiting for a response. Frustration wound its way through her stomach, tightening in her jaw. She was sick of everyone watching her like they were waiting for her to fall apart. Clearing her throat, she nodded again.

"Okay… I mean, that's fine."

Angela raised an eyebrow at this uncharacteristic capitulation, though she let it pass without comment. Once they were alone, though, she turned to Brennan.

"Bren, about work… Booth spoke to Cam and…"

"He didn't… he didn't tell her, did he?" Brennan said quickly, sharply.

"No, of course not," Angela said slowly.

Brennan glanced out the window, suddenly restless.

"Good."

"Sweetie…"

She was concerned; Brennan could hear it in her voice.

"There's no shame in it, you know. It's not your fault," she said quietly.

_No?_

Turning from the window, she sighed and shifted in the bed. The sheets were scratchy, rough against her legs.

"I know that. It's just… I don't want Cam to know. No-one needs to know."

Angela shifted in her seat, looking uncomfortable. She hesitated, and Brennan watched her, waiting.

"I told Jack."

Brennan stilled, not knowing what to say. Glancing away, she tried to compose herself, and Angela raced to fill the silence.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm sorry. I… It's just he drove me here that night, and I was upset, and he knew I wasn't telling him everything and… I'm sorry."

Brennan understood, as far as that went. She knew, on an intellectual level, that she wasn't the only person that this affected. She knew why Angela would have needed to talk about it with the man she loved. But understanding didn't really hold up, not when she realised what it meant – that she'd have to work with Jack, from now on, knowing that he knew. She sighed.

"It's… it's okay, Ang," she said, feeling sick at the stricken look on Angela's face.

They both knew it wasn't.

* * *

Booth was tense. He was smiling as he walked though the door, but she knew him too well to fall for that. Tired and distracted as she was, still she noticed the rigid set of his shoulders. The way his smile didn't quite meet his eyes. She frowned slightly, trying to read his expression.

"What is it?" she asked slowly.

He looked taken aback for a moment, and then a small, bemused smile crossed his face, slightly more genuine than the last. With a shake of his head and a raised eyebrow, he shed his coat and sat down in the chair to her right.

"You know, Bones, it might be time for a refresher in those people skills we talked about. Hello to you too. Hi, Angela."

His tone was light, but didn't entirely disguise the undercurrent of tension that surrounded him.

Angela murmured a greeting, but Brennan shook the greeting off. She wasn't buying it.

"Booth…" she said warningly. Something was bothering him, and by proxy, making her nervous. He was playing with the poker chip again.

"It's nothing. Hey, your new phone arrived. I got the lab guys at work to put your old SIM card in, so at least you won't have to reprogram all the numbers again." He reached into his pocket and produced the cell phone, placing it on the table in front of her, next to the dinner tray.

"Booth…"

"I take it you don't want the pudding?" he said, leaning across her to grab the dessert.

_Pudding?_

She felt the fear and frustration coalesce in her blood.

"Booth!"

Angela jumped, and Booth paused, both surprised at the anger in Brennan's voice. She took a deep breath, feeling the dull ache in her ribs.

"Sorry. Can you just… what is it?"

He hesitated a moment, and then met her gaze. She looked away, feeling the knot in her stomach tighten. He needed to stop looking at her. It was too hard to pretend that everything was normal between them when he looked at her like that. Like he knew her better than she knew herself.

Looking away, he sighed, and then spoke.

"It made the news."

Feeling her body go still, cold despite the blanket, she waited for his words to make sense. Beside her, Angela sat up straight.

"It what?"

Reaching back a hand, he rubbed his neck.

"I spoke to Pullman on the way over here. They… the scene techs only got a couple of fibres, and a partial print. They're waiting on some local security camera footage, but until then…"

He glanced over at her. He looked exhausted, and a flicker of guilt stirred in her stomach. She wanted to ask what this meant, but she was fairly certain she didn't want to know the answer.

"Until then, they haven't got much to go on. So… they've put the details out there. Local news, papers. They're hoping someone, somewhere, will know something, will have seen something."

"Details? What sort of details?" Angela asked, a slight edge to her voice.

Brennan watched as he rubbed a hand over his jaw. She could hear the faint rasping noise his stubble made. He did that all the time. When he was uncomfortable. She'd gotten used to it, had laughed at it on more than one occasion.

"No names. They didn't mention any names. But…"

_But._

She swallowed, waiting.

"But what, Booth?"

He looked uneasy.

"They showed the outside of your apartment building, Bones."

She nodded once, blinking.

"And?"

_I don't want to know._

"And… they gave your age, and the, uh… basics of what happened. They mentioned that it was prior to a vacation. And the showed the composite picture that you made with the sketch artist."

"Oh."

She couldn't think of anything else to say, couldn't hear anything except the sound of her own breathing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Angela's face, tight with anger.

"They can do that?" said Angela incredulously.

Booth nodded slowly.

"Yeah. Yeah, unfortunately, they can. As long as they don't give the name, they can pretty much give out any detail they want, so long as they think it'll help catch the perp."

The injustice of that was so poetic that Brennan laughed, bitterly. There was no humour in it, and it sounded sharp in the small room.

"As long as they don't give my name?" she said disbelievingly, feeling the anger swell in her blood. "And that's supposed to protect my privacy? When they've given out my age, and where I live, and what I was doing beforehand? They don't think that maybe people might realise who they're talking about?"

She shook her head, eyes burning. Swallowing hard, she felt the hard edges of her anger melt down, leaving her cold and spent. The words tumbled out before she could stop them.

"What about me? What am I supposed to do?" she asked quietly.

"Bones…" Booth started, looking pained, but she shook her head at him quickly. There was nothing he could say, she knew that. And empty words wouldn't help. Angela reached for her hand, and she moved it out of the way.

"Okay," she murmured, mostly to herself. "Okay," she repeated, a little louder.

A deep breath, and another. A weary half-smile, drawn with effort, her mask back in place.

"I'm okay."

_I'm fine._

* * *

The orderly looked scared. Booth sympathised, having been on the receiving end of this particular brand of anger, more than once.

"I don't care what the hospital regulations are. I refuse to be wheeled out to the car when I'm perfectly capable of walking!"

"But Ms Brennan…" the orderly, a young guy of no more than twenty-two, started. Booth winced, waiting for what was sure to follow next.

"Doctor! It's Dr. Brennan. Not 'Ms'. As I've pointed out at least a dozen times since I've been here."

The orderly glanced at Booth in desperation. Not liking his chances, still Booth tried.

"Bones…" he murmured, in what he hoped was a soothing tone. She turned to him, blue eyes flashing.

"Booth, it's ridiculous! I have two legs that work, so they can save the wheelchair for someone who needs it. I'm not a child. It's bureaucracy and it's…just… stupid!"

He tried to hide the smile that rose on his face as he watched her, flushed and angry, yelling. Like she used to. It wasn't much, but it was something. He wasn't quick enough. She narrowed her eyes.

"You think this is funny?"

Hastily rearranging his face into a more sombre expression, he backtracked.

"No, no, not at all." He turned to the orderly. "Chris, was it? Okay, Chris, how about this. I carry Dr. Brennan's bags to the car, I come back, and then we walk out together, with me holding onto her arm. That way, if she falls… not that she's going to…" He hastened to add as she glared at him. "…I can catch her, and nobody gets sued."

Chris looked confused, torn between his obvious desire to avoid Brennan's anger and his fear of breaking the rules.

"Uh..."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" Brennan exclaimed.

Booth sighed, some part of him wanting to laugh. Some things never changed.

"Not helping, Bones," he pointed out, then reached into his belt. Retrieving his badge, he held it up to the orderly.

"Look, Chris, you have my word that she'll be safe and you will not be disciplined for not following protocol. Just tell them the FBI told you it was fine, okay?"

Chris nodded, and then a warning look crossed his face.

"Okay. But seriously, dude, if she falls, she can't sue us."  
Booth glanced at Brennan, who was staring at the orderly, every inch of her eloquent with contempt.

* * *

"Seriously, 'dude', I think that right now, her suing you is the least of your worries."

He didn't say 'I told you so' when she stumbled five minutes later in the car park, though she suspected he desperately wanted to. She had managed to regain her balance before she hit the concrete, but the reflexive tightening of her abdominal muscles had caused a burning pain to spread across her ribs. Bent over, she held onto the frame of the car, breathing shallowly, waiting for the pain to subside. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him reach for her elbow.

"Don't."

He stepped back, hands raised in surrender.

"You okay?"

"Yes. Fine." She straightened, one hand pressed to her ribs. The passenger door was open, and she inwardly cursed the FBI for providing their agents with enormous SUVs. Unable to lift her arms high enough to swing herself in, she paused, wondering how this could work. Booth stood beside her, watching.

"Need a hand?" he queried. At least he wasn't laughing, Brennan reflected. A quick glance at his face surprised her. He looked worried. And understanding. She felt a pang of annoyance, tempered by a sudden overwhelming sadness. She would have almost preferred it if he'd laughed.

"No."

She gripped the interior frame of the door, lifting her leg onto the step, and tried to lever herself into the car. Feeling pain shoot through her arms as she tried to support her weight, she let go, feeling dizzy and frustrated.

"Bones?" He was still standing next to her, and his voice was quiet.

"I can do it, Booth!" she snapped, regretting it almost immediately. It wasn't his fault. He'd been nothing but patient with her, was one of the only people who had been treating her even slightly normally. She breathed for a moment, trying to rein in her temper.

He just smiled at her and raised an eyebrow.

"I know you can do it, Bones. But you know, this woman I work with says I've got this whole 'Alpha-male', dominant, hero-complex thing going on, so really, you'd be doing me a huge favour if you let me help you into the car." The grin widened, and for a moment she hated both him and his ridiculously charming smile. She stared at him for a moment, fighting against the realisation that she had no choice in the matter. Feeling like a child, she gave in with bad grace. She needed his help. It didn't mean she had to like it.

* * *

The trip passed mostly in silence, broken only by the muted music from the radio, and his own muttered apologies when the car went over a bump. She'd sighed, the last time he'd done it.

"I should be the one who's apologising."

"Huh? It's fine, Bones, don't worry about it." He kept his eyes on the road.

"No, it's not fine. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. You didn't deserve it. You were just trying to help."

He glanced at her, waving a hand in dismissal.

"Seriously, Bones, don't even think about it."

"It's just… I'm not used to… not being able to do things. It's frustrating. But I shouldn't have… I'm just stubborn, I guess."

"You don't say?" He asked acerbically, the tone softened by the smile he flashed towards her.

"Anyway… I'm sorry," she repeated.

"Don't be, Bones. I …look, I get it, okay? I understand."

Even as he said it, he wondered whether it was true. When she stayed quiet, he wondered if she was thinking the same thing.

He took a breath, then tried again.

"Okay, maybe I don't understand exactly. Maybe I can't. But I can try, if you want me to, Bones. If you let me."

They were silent then, lulled by the hypnotic hum of the asphalt under the tyres. As he steered the car off the highway fifteen minutes later, Booth glanced over at her. Having fought sleep the whole way, she was dozing now, eyes closed and her head resting against the window, the late afternoon sun flickering in her hair, the bruise under her eye faded to a pale smudge. _Stubborn as all hell, that's my Bones_, he thought, shaking his head. Then he froze. _Not your Bones_, he reminded himself firmly. _And feeling like shit about it isn't going to do you, or her, any favours._

Remembering was too easy, that was the problem. The memories were always just below the surface, waiting for that weak moment. The fifth of whiskey he'd nearly finished when he finally got home. The way he'd lain in bed, wide-awake until four in the morning, drunk and bewildered and embarrassed and angry with himself for fucking it up. The way she had moaned softly into his mouth as he kissed her, the heat of her skin through her shirt, warm under his hands.

He shook his head and glanced over at her again, a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, weighing him down. With a sigh, he shook it off. Given the option of friends or nothing, he'd take friends, every time.


End file.
